


Sweet-- safe-- Houses

by middlemarch



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dessert & Sweets, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Female Character of Color, Marriage, Shakespearean Sonnets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 21:42:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9846809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: She had been raised to be a great lady. She discovered there was more than one way to accomplish that goal.





	

“You taste like sugar,” Henry said, drawing back after kissing her. He left his hand at her waist, where she’d tucked a cluster of late-blooming roses. They weren’t her favorite blush noisette but she’d been so pleased the house Henry had found for them had a rose arbor, the smallest, dearest one she’d ever seen, she couldn’t be unhappy the roses were the somewhat martial General Jacks, more crimson than scarlet. The first time he'd seen her with such a nosegay in her sash, he had smiled broadly and remarked, “‘I have seen roses, damask’d, red and white…’” and she had been charmed that her solemn Yankee chaplain would make love to her with Shakespeare.

“Belinda said I ought to try the pudding to make sure it came out right,” she replied. Henry’s salary was enough to rent the house, so she needn’t be sent to live with his mother and sister Verity outside of Utica, but there was not much left, not enough for a servant and she’d been confident she could manage the meals, keeping the meagerly furnished home that had Henry’s laugh instead of crystal chandeliers. He had not complained once about her many failures and had not even suggested she consult former housekeeper but after the third pan of half-burnt biscuit neither of them could choke down, she paid a visit and listened closely to Belinda’s instructions, writing them down in a little book while her mammy chuckled. 

“Will it be too sweet, d’you think?” she asked, gesturing at the blanc-mange in its dish. It was very simple and not so costly that she had to rue the first, ruined batch where she’d scalded the milk before it had a chance to set. She had hoped to see him pleased that the dinner ended with a dessert and not only the chicory and sorghum they’d been sharing in the parlor most nights while she read to him.

“No, I shouldn’t think so,” he said and brashly dipped a spoon in before she could serve him a portion, swallowing it quickly and smiling.

“Why, Henry Hopkins! Your manners!” she exclaimed. He tightened the hand on her waist and pulled her into his lap, then kissed her again, longer and more intently than when he’d stolen the first kiss. His hand spanned her waist, moved up to graze the underside of her breast and she felt herself begin to forget the table with its laboriously ironed cloth, the china her mother had given her, everything but Henry’s hands, Henry’s mouth, the way her tender inclination became irrefutable urgency, and how he always could tell and loved her for it.

“Sweet enough like this,” he said, the devil in his eyes, his hands, sugar on his lips.

**Author's Note:**

> A Tumblr-ian Emmry fan noticed the dearth of fluffy Emma/Henry stories emerging from the cyber-ether. I could not resist writing this, though I admit it's slightly derivative of a similar story I wrote with Mary, Jed and some chocolat pot du creme. There's a bit of a different spin here. Henry quotes a Shakespearean sonnet. You may decide what Emma likes to read at night in their cozy parlor or out in the rose arbor, only big enough for two...
> 
> The title is from Emily Dickinson, a great lady indeed.


End file.
